


Perpetual Perplexion

by LananiA3O



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Not really a shipping fic, ace Death, but sexuality does play a big part here, mentions of War/Uriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24867229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LananiA3O/pseuds/LananiA3O
Summary: Death never enjoys missions that require him to go and meet Lilith. He enjoys them even less when he comes back "home" to find two siblings who hate being left out of the loop waiting for him.
Kudos: 28





	Perpetual Perplexion

**Author's Note:**

> Quick primers for this fic: I headcanon Death as asexual/demiromantic, which has got to be both the best and the worst combination for having to deal with someone like Lilith. Fic takes place post-Apocalypse. Humanity is rebuilding Eden with the help of the makers and the horsemen. War and Uriel are kind of having an enemy to lovers thing going on, though that's really not the focus of this fic.  
> Also, should probably mention that as depraved and evil as Lilith is, I do like her as a character, so please take Lilith bashing elsewhere. Thanks.
> 
> Disclaimer: This work was written for publication on Archive of Our Own and [my personal Tumblr](https://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/) and is not for profit. Any re-publication on for-profit/monetized sites/apps is not authorized or supported by me. If you come across such a re-publication, please leave a comment in [my tumblr ask box](https://lananiscorner.tumblr.com/ask). Podfics and translations may be authorized upon request.

Among the angels, Death had heard it said that the sun never sets in Eden, that the light never fades and never did before, except for that one ghastly and horrible time that Eden had been under attack by demonic abominations. The angels, as happened so often, were wrong on almost all accounts.

First of all, the sun did set in Eden, although unlike anywhere else in the universe he had ever visited, it did not do so on its own. It was bound by the magic of Eden, the magic of the humans living there. It set when they tired and it rose when they woke, a testament to a brand of magic that angels, in their rigorous denial of emotional ties, and demons, in their flagrant abuse of the same, could never understand nor effectively use. Both Heaven and Hell had been amused at best at humanity’s need to express themselves, in their stories, in their art, in their songs, all the way until humanity, with a bit of help from the makers, had finally understood the raw _power_ that laid within their souls. As a result, it was night now. The sun had set. Most of the humans were likely asleep. Possibly all of them. After all, they were no longer the only ones welcome in the garden.

Secondly, it had been bright as day when the nephilim had arrived in Eden, if only because they had set the entire place on fire. Death still remembered shaking his head as he watched Blaze tear through the forests and gardens of this world, leaving ashes and blackened stone in his wake. The sight had not shocked him—he had seen it a thousand times—but for the first time in centuries it had saddened him. Was that because he had actually felt pity for the humans who had been cast out, robbed of their homes over this wrongful conquest? Or because he had felt pity for what he had been about to do to his own siblings? Death could not tell. He was not sure he wanted to either.

Thirdly, nephilim were not demons. Half-demon, yes. Part demon, by definition. Abominations? Maybe. If the Creator had wanted them to exist, he would presumably have made it possible for angels and demons to breed naturally in the first place and Lilith would not have had to resort to seducing a maker for the secrets in his head when it would have been so much easier for her to seduce an angel for what hung between his legs.

Death sighed and steered Despair towards one of the gates that lead into the Embrace. A sentimental name for what was the part of Eden that had already been freed of nephilim corpses and cleansed of the poison they had left behind, but there was power in names, especially where humanity was concerned. Eden had been designed to shape humanity and be shaped by them in return. It was here where it was easiest for them to harness their collective emotions into powerful magic. If they considered this place an Embrace—warm, comforting, safe—then it would be warm and comforting and safe.

And of course, any creature that had not yet been ‘embraced’ by humanity was going to be in for a rude awakening, for the invisible barriers that separated the restored, pristine stretches from the foul wasteland outside, and for the guardians they would call as soon as the intruders prodded them. Maybe one of the humans, if the intruders were lucky. Maybe one of the makers who currently resided. Maybe Uriel, whose righteous fury at the injustice that had been done to humanity was only outdone by the sense of duty she now felt to Eden and its inhabitants, if they were not lucky at all.

And maybe, just maybe, if fate had decided to be a particularly disgruntled old hag that day, they would run into one of his brothers or his sister.

“Well… look who’s come creeping back in from the shadows in the middle of the night!”

Death suppressed the sigh but indulged the frown. He had no idea which of his many misdeeds had upset the universe enough to settle him with this welcoming committee of all possibilities, yet here he was. Maybe this was his punishment for not feeling like wanting to crawl out of his own skin following a visit to Lilith just this once.

“Strife.”

The warmth of the Embrace washed over him the moment he passed the barrier and made him pick at the shroud he was wearing. He would have to get rid of this thing as soon as possible, before it cooked him alive. He led Despair over to the fountain the humans had built for the horses of the Four, a rare and kind gesture from someone who should have known better, but he was not petty enough to scorn a gift that came with no strings attached. Not when Despair, just like him, was aching to get that acrid taste of Hell’s worst corners out of his mouth.

“You know,” Strife hopped onto a nearby balustrade and watched as Mayhem rose from the ether to join her brother at the fountain. The damn mare actually looked white now and that was still a strange thing to get used to, but her snappish attitude had remained. Of course it had. Strife had not changed _that_ much. “I was wondering where in the nine Hells that message had told you to go, that you would just get up and leave, without a sound, without so much as a _hint_ of an explanation... and then I remembered that’s just very _you_.”

“Good. I am confident that knowledge made my absence much more bearable for you.”

Death expected some kind of sarcastic rebuttal. Maybe more of Strife’s annoyed nit-picking. He was, unfortunately, exceedingly proficient at both. What he got instead was a sigh.

“Death... why do you keep on doing this to yourself?”

Death blinked. Did Strife just... voice serious concern for him? It sounded like it. What was this creature in front of him and what had it done to his brother? “I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I’m talking about Lilith.”

As much as the name made him want to retch, Death remained still and silent as a pillar. Dust swooped down from one of the arches and started playing around in the fountain, only for Mayhem to nearly stomp him dead. Stupid bird. An even stupider horse. “What about her?”

This time, the sigh was more exasperation than worry, but it was still a far cry from Strife’s usual level of intensity. Had his time with the humans really changed him that much?

“Talking to you really is like pulling teeth, you know?” Strife shook his head. “You know I’ve been to her place before. Don’t think I wouldn’t recognize the stench of it on you or your horse. What did the Creator want with her? From her? About her? Whatever. And why the hell do you always insist on going there yourself? I know you hate it. You hate her more than any of us ever did and Creator knows _you_ of all people are not enjoying a single thing she offers, so why?”

Perhaps humanity had changed _him_ as well, because just for a fraction of a second, Death actually found himself contemplating giving Strife an honest answer. The thought was absurd made him want to laugh and gag at the same time. “Let it go, Strife. The mission is done. Lilith is not going to be anyone’s concern for a while.”

“Yeah, see, that’s kind of the problem here—she’s never anyone’s concern until she actively _makes_ herself our concern. _Then_ we suddenly have to deal with her and by ‘we’ I’m not including you. You don’t teach people how to handle fire by keeping them away from flames all their life.”

“Is that a proverb the humans taught you?”

“No.” Strife was wearing his visor, as usual, but Death could hear the grin behind it. “Though it might have been inspired by what they told me about Hope and how she grew up.”

“Then you’ve already answered your own question.”

That answer seemed to leave him utterly perplexed. Good. Death took the opportunity to turn and leave and so did Despair and Dust. The horse vanished back into the void, the crow back into the night. Death set out at a brisk pace, heading straight for the morgue. He wondered how many of their fallen brothers and sisters humanity had dug up out of Eden’s poisoned mud in his absence. How many pieces of weaponry and armor would he find, still brimming with wrath and malice? He hoped Madness’ glaive, the last of the Great Abominations still wielded by his people at the time of the attack, was not among them. Then again, if it was, the floor would probably already be covered in blood and littered with the bodies of humans who had slain each other in bouts of temporary insanity.

The stench was harsh but familiar, as was the cold, and so Death did not even flinch as he descended the stairs, stepped into the cold stone hall and inspected the near-frozen alcoves of what had likely been designed to be a crypt. Twenty-one. That meant he must have been gone for what? Four days? Maybe five?

In the end, it did not matter. Death set about his task methodically, one gauntlet, one axe, one shield at a time. Even now, thousands of years later and with their souls returned to the Well, his brothers and sisters still had the potential to cause serious damage, if the wrong piece of equipment was to be molten down and repurposed for rebuilding Eden. He had to be thorough.

It was precisely for that reason that he blamed his own dedication to the task when the voice from the shadows of staircase surprised him.

“Did you really think you could just sneak in here, after disappearing on us like that? Again.”

“Fury.” This time, Death did not bother to keep the frustration out of his voice. Even in the dim, cold light of the morgue he could see the hint of a self-indulgent smirk on her lips. “I would not have imagined Strife to team up with you to make my life miserable.”

“I know.” She stepped forward softly and Death had to wonder when she had learned to be so light-footed, so sneaky. Perhaps he was just getting old. “The humans call this behavior ‘projection’.”

“Strange,” Death replied tersely, “I would call it harassment.”

Fury sighed and he could tell by the way that her hair started flowing upwards that there was still a near-constant charge of barely contained wrath underneath... whatever the humans had turned her into. He glanced down at the nephilim in front of him—Talon, judging by the placement of his first scar—and wondered whether he would even recognize his sister now, if he could suddenly spring to life and hear her talk like this.

“Next time, one of _us_ will handle Lilith.” She said it with the same casual certainty of a teacher explaining how one plus one equaled two. Someone had clearly draped silk over her steel, but it was still steel after all. “Any one of us would be more comfortable there than you always are.”

“And pray tell,” Death snapped back at her, “how comfortable will you be when she catches the scent of that human girl of yours all over you?” At least it made Fury flinch. Judging from the lack of rage rushing back at him, though, it seemed that she had at least expected that answer. “I’m sure Lilith would be amused to know that her last daughter keeps a human whore.”

“Watch your to—“

“Or would you rather War go in your stead?” Death continued, undeterred. “I am sure Lilith would be very disappointed to smell angel on him, even if only for a minute. Then she’d think about how to use him to ruin Uriel’s life even more, just as she did with Abaddon. And Strife? Do not even get me started. A man who could not stop himself from whoring his way through the cosmos long enough to _not_ accidentally father a child in the middle of the apocalypse should not even think about getting anywhere near _her_.”

“And a man who does not even understand the allure of what she offers, even just in the slightest, should probably not continue to subject himself to her every opportunity he gets.” To his surprise, Fury was still surprisingly calm, although he could tell the comment about the human girl still stung. Some part of her, Death was sure, wanted to get into a fight right here, right now. “The humans have a word for that, too. Two words actually: deliberate retraumatization.”

“Call it what you will.” Death spared her one last glance, then got back to the task at hand—removing and disassembling Talons armor and weapons. There were another twenty corpses waiting for him. He did not have time for this.

He heard the tell-tale clicking of her heels as she strode towards the staircase and almost allowed himself to breathe deeply in relief. Almost.

The clacking stopped just shy of the stairs.

“Did the shroud help?”

The question was so strange, so out of context, Death could feel his brain grind to a halt. Why ask that now? What business was it of hers what armor he w— “ _You_ were the one who commissioned the humans to make this for me.”

Fury laughed. “Certainly not. They wanted to provide something useful to you out of their own gratitude. We told them you hardly ever needed help, although now I can see why they made _this_ for you. They are very observant and crafty creatures. I believe it was your utter bewilderment at our life choices—War’s, Strife’s and mine—that prompted them to make this specific gift for you.”

‘Bewilderment’ was an adequate word for it. Death frowned as Fury ascended the stairs at last. He did not have the slightest clue what had driven War to seek out the very woman who had once killed him as his companion, nor why Fury had chosen to bed one of the humans under her watch. And Strife... well, Death was certain every inch of hell would turn into a shining realm of light before he understood why this irresponsible oaf could just... not have slept with a human in the middle of the apocalypse. Granted, no nephilim had ever fathered a child before, but exactly how much of his brain had Strife had to switch off to take the risk, however small, _in the middle of the apocalypse_?

Death took off the shroud and the fibula that held it in place, and shook his head. Sometimes, trying to understand the logical workings of his siblings’ minds truly bordered on trying to tame the Abyss.

Now... this gear the humans had provided for him, on the other hand... Death examined both the shroud and the brooch more closely under the harsh light emanating from a nearby glow stone, but found no trace of magic other than what he had identified when he had first picked them up at Eden’s foundry. They were designed to facilitate and enhance the flow of arcane energy, and to harness the wrath of slain foes. They were as useful as any piece of equipment could get for a necromancer, yet if Fury was to be believed, they also offered protection?

_Protection from what? And how?_

Perhaps the answer was not in the materials or the magic innate to them, but in the design itself, in the colors. They did match his usual choices—the shroud flowed gradually from a deep, rich black to ashen gray and snowy white, ending with an ornate purple border; the fibula’s bow was half white, half gray, the pin was a ghostly green, with a pitch-black triangular head. On their own, the colors meant nothing. Still, the more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to him that this was another instance of humanity’s firm _belief_ in symbolism being able to provide power to things that usually had none. The thought of asking either Fury or Strife or any of the hum ans about it crossed his mind for the briefest of seconds, but he pushed it away as quickly as it had come. He would find out in time. For now, there were more urgent things to take care of. Such as the twenty-one bodies of his deceased blood-thirsty siblings.

He supposed, at the end of the day, it was very fitting for someone who chose to call himself ‘Death’ to understand the motives of the dead better than the motives of the living sometimes.


End file.
